Disclaimer: Anything recognizable belongs to Janet Evanovich, and the rest is mine. I'm grateful she lets us play.
Warning: Dark fic. Adult language, adult content, violence, smut. This is written for mature audiences only.
A/N: Thank you for your amazing response to this story! This story had the highest first chapter readership, reviews, and follows of any of my posted works. I'm so excited by everyone's feedback, I couldn't wait to post Chapter 2 as a bonus!
Misty23y is an amazing beta on the project. I have loved bouncing ideas back and forth with her as I debate my infamous Option 1 or Option 2 for various storylines. She has several incredible stories in progress right now, including The Night That Changed Everything. I know some of what's coming, and I'm still captivated by every chapter.
Chapter 2
Stephanie's POV
I slowly blink and infinitesimally raise my head to look around the dimmed room. I determine that I'm laying on a bed in Bobby's exam room at Rangeman. Bobby left the door connecting this room to his office partially open, and light streams in around the frame. I lift my hands and see my right one is in a purple camouflaged cast. Using my left hand, I pat my head and feel a small bandage over my right temple. My mouth is dry, and I desperately need to use the restroom.
I relax my head back against the pillow again. Farro. He's dead, and I killed him. I wonder how long I've been out. I slowly sit up and turn my body so that my legs are dangling over the side. I pause to let my body revive after being still for so long, noting that while I'm slightly dizzy, there's no pain. I take a deep breath and focus on a spot on the ground. Sitting there, I hear voices drift in from the next room.
"How's she doing, Bobby?" Tank says.
"Resting. I was about to check on Bomber again. She should be waking up soon. The sedative knocked her out, but then her parasympathetic nervous system backlashed and she crashed out on top of it. She's been asleep for about fourteen hours. Otherwise, she'll be fine. CT showed no brain swelling; the wrist is a simple fracture that will heal in about three weeks. Steph's lucky," Bobby said with a heavy sigh. "It could have been a lot worse."
"She said Farro attempted to assault her sexually. Is Beautiful okay?" Lester asks, and I push the memory away.
"Bomber didn't say much more than that to me either. Steph has plenty of bruising, but there's no indication of penetration," Bobby says heavily. It's something of an out of body experience to hear the guys talking about yesterday, and it's hard to relate the words to my experience.
"Damn it," Lester says in muted exclamation. "How can we keep Beautiful alive if she won't let us help her? Ranger is going to take us to the mats, hard when he finds out about this. I love that girl, but this shit's gone on long enough. I'm tired of constantly worrying that we won't be there in time the next time. It could have just as easily been Steph's body in the morgue as Farro's, and then we'd be busy trying to keep Ranger alive." I can hear the frustration and anger, and it's a tone I've never heard from Lester before.
"Keep your voice down," Tank says. "You're right, but Steph's impossible to talk to; she's stubborn and refuses to change. Without meaningful change, I've accepted that she's likely going to die, and I've worked up several contingency plans to deal with Ranger in that eventuality. I love her, too, but my first loyalty is to Ranger." His words settle like a dead weight in my stomach.
Over the past couple of years, I thought that of all of Ranger's friends and employees, Tank, Lester, and Bobby had also become my friends. It never occurred to me that the base of our friendship formed under threat of punishment from Ranger, and the betrayal stings. I do think they are wrong about the apparent threat my almost certain demise is to Ranger's life considering how easily he pushes me away, but I can understand how they would reach that point of exaggeration. Ranger's ridiculously overprotective of me, always has been, and I had no idea how much that extended to his interactions with friends and employees. I can't do anything about Ranger, but I can do something about me; I am not Rangeman's responsibility.
I take care to stand and amble to the adjacent restroom silently. After using the facilities, I stare at my reflection and determine I look like hell. I need to go home.
When I step out of the bathroom, Bobby is waiting on the other side. "Hey there, Bomber. How are you feeling?" he says in a tone that I now interpret as false.
"Fine. Thank you for helping me," I reply, my face giving nothing away. I spot my phone, stun gun, and pepper spray on the small table next to the bed. "Is my car and purse in the garage downstairs?"
"Yes, but it's only 5 am. You're welcome to stay and rest," Bobby says. "Seven is available for your use as well."
"I'm going to head home," I reply. "Thanks for the sweats. I'll bring them back."
"Don't worry about it, Bomber," Bobby says with a frown. "Are you sure you're okay to drive? At least let someone take you."
"I'm fine," I state, picking up my property before walking evenly out of the room, taking the door that leads directly to the main hallway to avoid walking past Tank and Lester. It doesn't work, and they catch up to me at the elevator.
"Beautiful, where are you going?" Lester says, putting his arm around my shoulder. I brush it off and take a step back with the same impassive expression.
"Home," I reply, silently willing the elevator to arrive faster.
"Let me drive you," Lester suggests.
"No," I state, and Tank looks annoyed.
"Here is your discharge paperwork and pain pills, should you need them," Bobby says with a searching look, handing me a paper bag as the elevator opens. I silently take it, step into the elevator, and descend to the main level alone.
My car is in its usual slot, and I drive out of the garage and home slowly, mindful of the limitations of my casted wrist. When I enter my apartment, I expect to feel relief, but I don't find any. Instead, I become immediately anxious, and my heart rate begins to climb. I close and lock the door quickly and take my S&W out of the cookie jar, load it, and sweep the rooms. Along the way, I check the locks on the windows and doors. I jam a chair under the knob of the front door and slide my dresser in front of the fire escape.
I stand in the living room, and I see my home as Ranger, Morelli, and everyone else must see it. I understand how easy it is to break into my apartment, and I feel a deep sense of vulnerability and insecurity. I know I will never sleep well here again.
I place my gun on the kitchen counter, freshen up Rex's water and give him a snack, and make a cup of coffee. As it brews, I pull a plastic bag out and cover my wrist, not knowing if it is a waterproof cast or not, and verify I have replacement bandages on hand for my temple. I step into the steaming stream and stand immobile there as the water begins to rinse away the stench of death from my hair and skin. I stare blankly at the shower wall as I recall Farro kissing my face, grabbing my breasts, punching me, crushing me, and dying in front of me. Because of me. I take my loofah and scrub my body as hard as I can one-handedly before washing my hair. I feel like I should be sad, angry, horrified, or even glad I lived, but I can't find anything except regret.
I dress in yoga pants and a baggy sweatshirt before finger combing my hair and brushing my teeth. I dig a pop-tart out of the cupboard and bring it over with my coffee to my couch. I set them down and walk into my bedroom to retrieve my laptop. I'm halfway through the apartment when I freeze as I vividly recall finding Lula's ravaged body by the fire escape. I slowly turn and see Ranger being shot by Scrog in my living room. I see the corpse of Soter on my couch. Ramirez falls, shot by me, and I watch the life drain from his body. Scrog screams as Julie shoots him because I failed to save a little girl from the burden when I acted impulsively and allow him to catch me. My apartment is firebombed, broken into, destroyed, and violated in a constant stream of memory.
I grab my gun and stand with it while attempting to control my breathing. I'm not going to stay here any longer. I will never sleep another night in this place. The most secure building in town is Rangeman, but I have no intention of asking for an apartment there. I will not be a burden, pity case, or liability any longer. I open my laptop and begin searching listings.
Typical apartment listing guides are all outside of my price range, so I turn to Craigslist. There's a listing for a basement efficiency apartment in neighboring Franklin Park that looks promising. It's cheaper than my current rent; the door is steel, the single window has bars over it, and, for fifty dollars more a month, I can have a single car garage space. The details say the apartment comes furnished. I call the landlord and set up an appointment in an hour.
When it's time to go, I place my gun in the small of my back before heading downstairs, but I can't make myself get into the car. What if there's a bomb? I lost count of how many times my cars have blown up. I go back upstairs and find a mirror and a roll of tape. I attach it to a yardstick and use it to look under the carriage of my vehicle. I don't see any explosives, but I do find the tracker. I reach under, pull it off, and place it under my neighbor's car. Then I empty my purse and carefully inspect every item, ultimately deciding only to keep my ID and bank cards. I repack everything I'm abandoning and leave it hanging off the corner of the dumpster. I am in New Jersey, and odds are, someone is bound to steal it. That should throw Rangeman for a loop and buy me some time. As an afterthought, I take off my shoes and do a careful once over, including pulling back the insoles, before putting them back onto my feet. I turn off my phone and remove the sim card. I will no longer let Rangeman intrude on my life.
I go through my bank's drive-through to withdraw the balance of my savings and checking account. Rangeman often operates in the gray, and I don't want my financial transactions to be used to track me. I arrive at the property early and inspect the grounds. It's non-descript, rundown, and utterly forgettable. There's a motion-activated floodlight that illuminates the main door to the apartment and the garage as well as street lights. I count one small window to the basement unit, and the bars are steel.
I watch as a middle-aged black man in a gold Toyota Camry pulls into the drive and steps out. "You the one interested in the apartment?" he asks, and I nod my head yes. He unlocks the door and flips on the light, and I follow. The apartment smells vaguely like stale French fries, and I begin my short tour.
The kitchen consists of a small refrigerator, microwave, and two-burner oven. It's separated from the rest of the house by a breakfast bar big enough for one. The living area doubles as the bedroom with a single closet opposite the bathroom door. Pale yellow tiles cover the bathroom walls with a small sink and medicine cabinet, toilet, and stand up shower stall. There's a futon in the living room with a side table, and gold-glassed lamp with stained shade beside it, a metal barstool near the kitchen counter, and a beat-up coffee table with glass ring stains pushed against the wall. The floors are wall to wall vinyl.
"I'll take it, along with the garage," I say, and the landlord nods.
"How you want to pay for it?" he says.
"Cash. I'll pay this month in full plus the security deposit. I'll rent month to month with a thirty-day vacancy notice, or I'll forfeit the deposit. Can I move in today?" I say evenly.
"Sure thing. I have the rental application in the car," he replies.
"I don't know your name, and you don't know mine. I'll pay you an extra fifty a month to keep it that way," I bargain, my blank face in place.
The man gives me an appraising look. "Deal," he decides. "Do you have the cash now?" I reach in my pocket and count out the money, and he hands me the keys before turning and departing wordlessly.
I leave and immediately return to my apartment. The fact is that I don't own very much since everything I own was destroyed numerous times in the past three years, and I'm taking less than that with me. It's slow work with the use of only one hand and a sore body, but I put the elevator to work as I pack my car. I take down my clothes, shoes, bedding, toiletries, and kitchenware, inspecting each item for any hidden trackers. I haven't framed any photos since the latest firebombing, so there are no personal touches for me to take down. I trek down to the basement and find Dillon in his office.
"Hey, Stephanie. I heard about the shooting. How are you doing?" Dillon asks.
"Fine," I reply. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I'm giving up the apartment. I'm going to leave the large furniture behind. Feel free to sell it, use it to list the unit as furnished, or donate it. The deposit is yours. I'll pay next month's rent if you can't find anyone to take the apartment. Send me an e-mail if that's the case, and I'll stop by. Will you help me bring my TV down to my car?"
Dillon whistles between his teeth. "Are you sure about this Steph? We're going to miss you around here."
"Yes," I say, and he heads upstairs with me. Dillon picks up my TV, and I pick up Rex, pulling the door behind us closed without a second look. I place Rex on the passenger seat and pull the seatbelt around the cage as Dillon sets the TV on the floor of the backseat. My Honda CR-V is only half-filled. We awkwardly look at each other as I pull the key off of my ring and hand it to him. "I have no idea who else might have a key. Might want to change the lock. Thanks for everything," I say with little emotion, and I get into the car and pull out of the lot without waiting for a reply.
I drive out of town to a big box home improvement store. There I select new locks for the apartment and garage, a drill, steel plating, lock guard, a deadbolt, floor bolt, and chain. In the home security aisle, I find wireless cameras and door and window sensors. I fill my cart with a couple of cleaning items, surprisingly find a waterproof mattress pad for the futon, and check out. I head down the road to a strip mall for two burner phones, one with the ability to act as a wireless hotspot, grab a couple of groceries from a convenience market, and eat a drive-through hamburger on my way to my new home.
My paranoia builds as I drive closer to my new apartment. What if I missed a tracker? I stop at a gas station and do another sweep with my jerry-rigged mirror. I'm cautiously relieved when I don't find anything and continue on my way.
I'm tired when I pull up outside the door to my new home, but I don't let myself rest. I unload the car with single-minded determination and ignore the throbbing in my wrist and head. I'll sleep when I'm safe. When I park the car in the garage, I begin beefing up my security by exchanging the lock. The garage structure is cinderblock with a manually operated metal door, and it doesn't take me long to complete the task. I immediately repeat the process on the main entrance and lock it behind me. Next up is installing the bolts and locks. I get around the limitations of my casted wrist by taping things in place before securing them in place. After I'm satisfied with my door security, I take the metal plating and attach hinges to the top of it. I install it so that it opens upward over the single window before attaching sliding bolts to secure it to the wall. I want to prevent anyone from being able to spy, shoot, or throw anything through the window into my home, but nor do I want to block my only alternative exit permanently. It seems like the safest compromise.
I glance at my watch, surprised to see it's only two o'clock in the afternoon. It seems you can get a lot done if you start your day at five in the morning. I adjust the futon so that it's flat and make my bed. I set my gun down on the side table, close my eyes, and give into the exhaustion with a sense of secure anonymity.
I wake up several hours later. "How do you like your new digs, Rex?" I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter. He waddles out of his soup can, wiggles his nose in the air, and retreats. I decide to interpret the action as approval. I make a cup of instant ramen and get to work wiping down everything in the apartment with Clorox wipes. It may be small and out-of-date, but it can be clean. My kitchen items take up one cupboard, so I use the under-cabinets of the island to store my non-hanging clothes. It takes about two hours, but when I finish, I feel a deep sense of satisfaction with the control I have taken.
I sit down on the futon and lay out the electronic gadgets before me. The first thing I do is set up one burner phone as in-home wi-fi. It's slightly more expensive than contacting the utility company, but at least it's untraceable. I plan on setting up call forwarding from my cell phone to the second burner, but I'm going to drive far away from here before I turn it on again, even if only briefly. Next, I unpackage the wireless cameras and sensors beside me on the futon. I've never installed anything like this, and I begin reading the instruction manuals. I'm about to log into my laptop to begin set-up when a loud banging on the door interrupts me.
I immediately grab my gun and move into a defensive position behind the door. I glance in the peephole, and standing there is Hector. He turns and looks directly at me before knocking again. I consider ignoring him, but what if he decides to come back with Tank, Lester, or Bobby? All of my efforts will be for nothing. With a sinking heart, I realize they might already be for nothing.
I open the door but don't step out from behind it, locking it as soon as Hector enters into the small entry. He looks at me cautiously and keeps his hands visible. Hector backs into the main room of the apartment, and I follow him at as much distance as the confined space allows. "No one knows where I am, Angelita. I keep your secret," Hector says. I lower my gun to my side but keep it in hand.
"How did you find me?" I ask tersely.
"You missed one tracker, but I cut off the feed at Rangeman," Hector replies. "I assumed you had a good reason to dump the other ones."
"Where is it hidden?" I immediately interrogate, pissed off that despite my best efforts, Rangeman still has this level of intrusion on my life.
Hector walks over to Rex's cage and removes a small device from inside the pole that attaches Rex's wheel to the base and sets it on the counter.
"Fuck," I mumble under my breath before crushing it with the heel of my foot and flushing the remains down the toilet.
"Anything else?" I state, walking back into the room with narrowed eyes. Hector looks concerned but slightly amused.
"I will help you," Hector states with calm authority.
"Thanks for showing me the tracker, but I don't need help," I reply, feeling my anger and indignation rising.
"Not Rangeman help, my help," Hector replies, unfazed. "I will keep your secret, Angelita."
I pause and consider the offer, and Hector uses my silence as an opportunity to press his case.
"Rangeman will figure out that you moved and redistributed your trackers, by tomorrow at the latest. Tank will do everything he can to find you, and it will make your life difficult. I can cover for you," he says.
"Why would you do that?" I ask.
"I know what it is to have blood your hands and be alone," Hector confesses, pointing to the teardrop on his face.
I let the words hover between us, but I keep my blank face in place.
"In exchange, I have two requests. The first is that you keep this tracker with you," he says, placing a fob on the counter. "I'll exchange it for the Rangeman fob you currently have. This has a tracker, but the only one with this tracking data is me, and the data goes to my personal computer, not the Rangeman network. Here is a panic button," he continues, opening a hidden compartment on the side of the fob and revealing a button. Again, I am the only person who would receive the signal. You'll still have the same level of access to Haywood should you choose to go over there. It's not as safe for you as what was in place previously, but it's better than nothing."
What Hector is offering is reasonable, and it would make my life easier. "What's the second?" I ask warily.
"You don't try to hide from me, and you don't try to kill yourself. I'm worried about you, Angelita," Hector says quietly.
"Why are you worried about me? Afraid Ranger will take you to the mats, too? Or am I only useful as long as my existence protects his life?" I retort bitterly.
A flash of anger crosses Hector's face before it's replaced with compassion as he takes a step towards me. I take a step backward and brace myself. Hector freezes and seems to consider me more carefully. "After my sister died, I hardened my heart. You brought me back to life, Angelita. You are my angel. I am not afraid of Ranger. If made to choose between him and you, I would quit my job," Hector says emphatically.
I relax my posture, set the revolver down on the side table, and sink into the futon. I lean against the wall and pull my knees into my chest, considering Hector's words but knowing already that I will accept his deal. "Okay," I say. "But you will not let anyone from Rangeman track me or know where I live."
"Agreed," Hectors says with a hint of relief and points to the opposite end of the futon. I nod yes, and he sits on the edge of the mattress and picks up one of the cameras I have laid out and inspects it before doing the same with the window sensor. "Can I help you with this?" he asks, and I appreciate that he doesn't take over.
"Yes," I reply, knowing I am in over my head with the electronics. Hector turns the devices over in his hands a minute before standing.
"Give me your old key fob. I will dispose of it and return shortly. I need another tool, and we will do this together," Hector directs.
I walk over to the kitchen counter where I stowed the new handbag I put together for myself while unpacking, and take out the keyring. I slide the fob across the surface and attach the new one to it.
Hector points to a nail sticking out of the wall between the door and the kitchen. "Keep your keys here when you don't have them on you. It will make the fob easier to access, and you'll have them if you need to leave quickly," he says, and I comply.
"You know where I live. I think it's only fair I know where you live," I state as Hector makes his way to the door. He turns and gives me a quizzical look. "You have an apartment at Rangeman, but I know you don't stay there all the time." I follow up.
"Give me your phone," he directs, and I hand him the burner. "Where is your other phone?" he says, looking at the new one. I pull it and the sim card out of a kitchen drawer. "I'll fix this for you before I return," he says, taking it from me. He gives the burner back to me, and I unlock it before he enters his contact information. "Will you let me make a copy of your keys?" he says, approaching the door. "It will be faster than picking the locks if I need to get to you." I agree, and he slides the three keys off of the ring before leaving. I secure the door behind him, move the cameras and sensors to the small patch of counter next to Rex, and flop back onto the futon.
I used to think I had an excellent ability to read people, but the last twenty-four hours have shattered my confidence in that ability. I didn't expect Farro to come easily, but nor did I think he was capable of killing me. I thought Morelli and I were drifting apart, but I didn't think, or maybe I didn't want to think, that he was cheating on me. I suppose I did the same thing with Dickie. I thought Tank, Lester, and Bobby were my friends. Instead, I was nothing more than another order they had to follow – or else.
I've spent my life persistently seeing the good in people, even when there isn't any good to see. No longer. I'm willing to trust Hector, to a point, but I will still keep my guard up. I'll be critically evaluating every other person in my life. Too often I'm the source of gossip and ridicule. The public at large, and I mean the Burg, analyze everything I do, and everything is always my fault.
I wipe my healthy hand over my eyes. Everyone can't be wrong. One or two people, yes, but even the Core Team at Rangeman finds me bearing at least some responsibility for the deaths that occur in my wake.
Farro's words ring clearly. I'm a murderer. I killed him. I fought him over sex, and he died. And I have to live with that. No one thinks Trenton is better because I brought him down. They will mourn the loss of a husband and father, and I will be the one judged. I am the one who is morally bankrupt. Tears sting my eyes as the crushing weight of that burden settles on my chest.
I hear a rap on the door, and I'm immediately on my feet with my gun in hand. I cautiously look through the peephole, and Hector gives me a one fingered wave. I let him in, locking the door behind us, and place the gun near Rex. Hector is carrying a duffle bag and a pizza.
He opens the box, takes out a slice, and leans against the opposite counter. I take a seat at the barstool and join him. I appreciate that Hector doesn't force conversation. When Hector finishes eating, he washes his hands and begins pulling items out of the duffle bag.
"All voice messages and texts are now forwarded to your burner phone. I emailed you a list of your contact information. Don't turn it on," Hector instructs, placing the phone and sim card back into the drawer I pulled it out of before.
"This will give you secure wireless. Your set-up works, but this will be cheaper and more reliable. You can pay me, and I'll take care of the bill," he says, unplugging the burner phone and powering it down. I appreciate that he isn't giving me something for nothing. "Keep this on hand as a back-up, just in case," Hector continues, powering down the phone and placing it and the charger in the drawer.
I log into my laptop, and we finish setting up the wireless before installing the cameras and sensors. "The video feed is routed to and will be saved on my personal server. You can access it here," he says, type the file address into my browser. An image of my living room ceiling fills the screen. "It also works on your phone. If there is a tripped sensor, an alert will go to your desktop and phone as well as mine. If you trip it on accident, let me know, because I will come over otherwise to make sure you are okay."
We work together to install the sensors and cameras around my apartment and the garage. Hector stops at his car and points to a small safe on the backseat. "I know you emptied your bank account. You need a secure place to keep your cash and weapons. I brought you my old safe since I got a bigger one. I'll let you buy it from me for fifty bucks, and we can mount it in your apartment," he says.
"Okay," I agree, and he carries it inside. Hector places it on the floor of my closet and taps the wall. Once satisfied, he takes out a saw and cut a hole into the wall the profile of the safe and slides it into the void before securing it with straps to the studs. It isn't a glamorous solution, but it is effective.
Hector shows me how to set a new combination on the electronic keypad and steps aside as I do. I prop the door open and pull my cash out from four hiding spots in my apartment. I give Hector money for the safe and wi-fi before securing it inside. He places the drywall panel back over the front of the safe and sets my laundry hamper in the corner. I'm sure someone like Ranger would be able to find the safe, but it is hidden enough to deter the average intruder or someone in a hurry.
Hector gathers up his tools zips the duffle bag closed. "Remember our deal, Angelita," he says seriously.
"I will. Thanks," I reply equally, locking the door behind Hector. I walk into the kitchen, pull the bottle of tequila out from the cupboard over the stove, take three shots, and pass out in bed.
A/N: What did you think? I've written through chapter 8, but your comments have improved and changed storylines before! Thank you again for reading.